


our gentle sin

by orphan_account



Category: Desire & Decorum (Visual Novel), choices stories you
Genre: F/F, Lesbian Character of Colour, Period-Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, ok i didnt expect it to get this sad ok, period lesbians :(, pride month fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:01:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24984244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Snapshots of Annabelle and her lover.
Relationships: Annabelle Parsons/Biracial Main Character, Annabelle Parsons/Black Main Character, Annabelle Parsons/Main Character (Desire & Decorum)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	our gentle sin

**i.**

It is strokes past midnight, and Annabelle waits for her in the greenhouse. She ambles down the path, shrouded in flower and foliage and black darkness, gently thumbing pink petals and ghosting a hand over ivy as she goes. By the fountain she finds herself drawn to, where the memory of a day long past lies. Her lover in a sitting contrapposto, smile drawn from a coyness that did little to spoil the softness in her dark eyes—the softness that only Annabelle should bear witness to.

She leaves behind the moment in vines and leaves.

Forwards and into the darkness, she steps. She lets her fingers ride the moss of the fountain, her hand eventually coming to press into the same wet spot her lover's once did. The memory feels more than a lifetime ago—feels more like a dream. Like perhaps it never happened at all. They knew, then, that they would never be together: she was not painting her portrait for herself. Yet they had such hope, and—more than that—they had such... affection. Annabelle dips her palm into the fountain water, green with neglect. And now—

"Miss Parsons." A hand passes over her arm like a whisper, rousing flames along olive skin. She turns to meet the soft, dark eyes of her lover and is drawn into a kiss. This is not a memory, nor a dream. It is tangible and warm. The feeling deep in her stomach tiptoes across the fine line between dread and thrill, because she knows right here, right now, that those sensations are not unlike sisters. It is a rolling feeling, a churning feeling, a sick feeling. One she finds—as she leans in closer, places a steadying arm on her lover's elbow, feels her gentle curls tickling her cheek—she does not mind at all.

If anyone were to see them, they would be sent away forever. She'd no longer be the shameful spinster; she'd be the hidden woman. Her lover a bastard of even iller repute. But she has been pushed to sitting down, now, in the space where her lover sat in those memories passed, except now it is the space where her lover now straddles her, a hand on her shoulder, nails sharp but palm soft. Annabelle's hands search fervently for the sloping planes of her lover's back, and she pulls her closer so that if she plunges into murky waters they shall go down together, and she finds that perhaps being discovered would not be so bad. Her lover's hand finds her cheek. Her grip is warm, but the cold, cold metal of her engagement ring blooms like a bruise against her flesh.

Yes, it would not be so bad.

**ii.**

The dressmaker eyes their entwined arms over the brass rim of her spectacles. Perhaps it is their intimacy, because her cheeks glow when her lover cups her ear and whispers something just loud enough. Or perhaps it is her lover's complexion. The back of the shop is the only place those spectacles don't reach, and so it is most natural that this is where her lover pulls her into an alcove and kisses her dizzy.

They learned long ago that they must love in snatches of moments; they must love in darkness and disguise and under the cover of the night sky or racks and racks of dresses hanging precariously above their heads, skirts just brushing the tops of their dark-haired heads. And they learned long ago that they must cherish that, for love in secret is better than no love at all. Yet when they step out onto the street, new dresses in hand (yellow for her, burgundy for her lover—it is her colour, after all) Annabelle cannot help the shallowness to her breath, the constricting of her heart when she sees men leading women by the arm, men bending down and kissing a woman's dainty hand. She cannot help but tug her lover closer, because _one inch closer_ is their only substitute for _everything they could never have._

**iii.**

Her lover and Sinclaire wed in June. A summer wedding, one perfectly suited to all the warmth in her lover's heart.

On the morning of the event, Annabelle visits her lover's dressing room. It is the first time she has been alone today. From the earliest hours of the day, she had been hounded by Miss Sutton and Lady Grandmother and all the other women eager to play a part in the finalisation of the social affair of the year. Gentle morning light breathes through the pale netting, dappling a white shine over her lover's dark skin. Annabelle leans against the doorframe, admires the way her curls drape, for once untethered, and breathes.

"Sinclaire is a fortunate man," she says, because it is true.

"He is a man," her lover says, because she cannot bring herself to say: _he isn't you._

It is the same sentiment, though, and it is why Annabelle at once bounds forwards before her mind can hold her back, because her heart is stronger and there is but one woman who owns it. It is why her lover at once turns her head not like she has been expecting this, but like she has been hoping for it, because their affection defies all expectation. It is why, when Annabelle captures her lover's lips in a kiss, she does not hurry. Instead, she puts her all into it: pushes herself closer, brings a hand to her lover's jaw and another to her cheek. The cold, cold of her lover's engagement ring is echoed by Annabelle's own against her flesh.

This will be their last.

He is a man. She is a woman. They had been fools for hoping.


End file.
